Only herself, the blanket bed, and the little woman
were unready.
Just below, her own canoe, with Brilliers, Wilson, Frith, McDonald, and
Alloybeau in place, waited her presence. She could see, from the
elevation of the shore, the stretched form of McElroy in the bottom, a
bright blanket beneath him and his fair head pillowed on a roll of
leaves. A shelter of boughs hid his face, and for one moment her heart
stopped while the river and the woods, the people and the boats whirled
together in a senseless blur.
She sprang to her feet.
"Is he--" she faltered thickly, "is he--"
"No, no, dearie! He is like he was, only they have fixed him a bit av a
shelther from th' sun. Do ye dhrink this now," she coaxed in her pretty
voice; "dhrink it, asthore,--ye'll nade it f'r th' thrip."
She held up a bowl of broth, steaming and sweet as the flesh-pots of
Egypt, and Maren took it from her.
"But--did M'sieu--Oh, I have slept when I should have tended him!"
"Ye poor girl. Dhrink,--he has been fed like a babe be me own hands.
There!"
There were tears in the little woman's eyes, and Maren took the bowl
and drained it clear.
"You are good, Madame," she said, with a long breath.
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